


i'm ravaged, i need disaster relief

by pointvee



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Caution: Oven is Hot, Child Soldiers, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Gen, Objectification, Philza Minecraft Needs a Hug (Dream SMP), Philza Minecraft-centric (Dream SMP), Whump, aetwt, feather quill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-21 05:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30016824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointvee/pseuds/pointvee
Summary: “He took one of your feathers, didn’t he,” Lord Technoblade says, and it is not a question.Oddly, blessedly, that makes it easier to answer. “His Lordship—wished for a feather quill.”-oh dear, can you see me (findingkairos, chapter 3)In which a feather quill is made, and the Angel of Death can feel every. single. step.
Relationships: Cuptoast | Crumb & Jordan Maron, Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 192





	i'm ravaged, i need disaster relief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [findingkairos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/findingkairos/gifts).
  * Inspired by [oh dear, can you see me?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681323) by [findingkairos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/findingkairos/pseuds/findingkairos). 



> If you haven't read the work this fic is inspired by, go do that now! Otherwise you might be confused.
> 
> Lots of thanks to my betas [alecellent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alecellent/profile) and [yumgrapejuice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumgrapejuice/profile) for vibe checking me!
> 
> Fic & chapter titles from the song [Freedom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0cBaQb5D74) by Teddy Hyde.

His Lordship is angry. Nothing new, though that is a state of being that has become more common as the war has dragged on. It makes itself smaller. The desk that His Grace sits at is a mess of missives and reports concerning the war, though the angel takes care to not look at them. It knows its place, hard-earned as it is. 

It wonders what report had come in to anger its lord this time. Likely another battle lost to Technoblade. 

There is commotion in the hall. It lifts its head just enough to watch as a messenger bursts in, laden with red marked missives for the entire castle. It drops its hand from its dagger and drops its gaze. More bad news, judging by the harried look on their face. They give the dispatch to His Lordship and leave so quickly it is surprised not to see void particles in their place.    
  


The quill in its lord’s hand is the fifth like it this week, ink-stained and ragged vanes along its shaft. His knuckles are white where they clench in rage around the writing utensil, and it shifts nervously. The creak the quill gives as His Lordship reads the new report implores the angel to tuck its wings closer as if to hide. It ruthlessly shoves the impulse down; movement would only draw the eyes of its lord, it dares not.   
  
It’s for nothing in the end. The angel watches through a curtain of hair as His Grace stills, brow drawn as his eyes flicks over a line, jaw grit with rage and hand wrapped around his writing quill as if it were the Blood God’s own neck.

Once, twice. It is unable to hold back a flinch at the distinctive crack of a flight feather being broken in two. 

The angel freezes beneath the glare that the motion draws. It thanks the stars when the glare passes back to the report, and keeps its head bowed. Drifts like it should have in the first place. The crunch the quill had made when it snapped between its lord’s fingers like thin straw echoes still in the angel’s ears.

(It knows better than to hope that the lord’s anger will not fall upon it.)

“The Kingdom of Jordan has sent diplomats to the Blood God’s Army,” His Lordship snarls, “seeking potential allyship with them.” He flings his arm out in anger, scattering shards of broken quill to the floor.

It tracks the motion without turning its head, wings mantled and head bowed. 

“My angel,” He commands, and it comes to heel. “This cannot be allowed to pass. An alliance between the Blood God and the Champion of Balance would ruin us. You will put an end to it.” 

  
“But my lord,” It tries to protest. They cannot afford to fight on fronts than they already are, and surely angering another faction would be unwise, but a sharp gesture from His Lordship silences it. There is a maniac light in his eyes. “Whatever it takes to win, my angel. Whatever it takes.”   
  
It bows its head in aquicense. It is oathsworn, obedient to the last. It will do this.

A pause. And then:

“Give me your wing.”

It freezes. Lowers itself to its knees and carefully outstretches its wing to its lord’s lap. The angel knows better than to expect petting, it has done nothing to deserve it, did not (would not?) even ask politely. Half expects the agony of nails dug into muscle and bone.

It relaxes anyways. The hand that smooths itself across the flat plane of its lesser coverts burns, but it welcomes the touch like a sunflower turns its head to welcome the sun. 

It is still aware enough to smother the keen that rises in its throat. (It’s been weeks since its lord had deigned to even-) 

Large fingers muddle through the wing’s secondaries as it closes its eyes and just. Lets the hand that strokes the angel's wing settle it. Ignores the burning that trails every stroke and the pins and needles that prickle its bowed neck and the way its knees ache against the cold stone floor that it feels even through the rug and its lord’s voice murmuring above it saying “I wonder if-”

It cannot ignore the abrupt stinging pain of one of its secondaries being torn out. The angel collapses with a choked off screech, narrowly avoiding slapping its lord with an errant limb, and can only hope he does not take more of what is his.

The pain focuses into two burning points. It can feel its lord’s fingers wrapped around the calamus of the lost feather, feel the slick blood that drips from the quill like ink and which pours from the empty place where the feather had met bone. 

“A magic feather surely would be more durable than a regular one?” His Grace contemplates the plume, running ink stained hands across the vanes. The angel shivers at the sensation. The grip on the feather is too harsh, yet it nods. Its lord smiles at it, an expression it cannot place but for the faint impression of hunger, totems and death. “And it is the correct size. I must congratulate you, my angel.”

The hand around the rachis clenches, and it chokes back a cry of pain. Yet the quill is unbroken, and its lord is satisfied. He calls for a servant to take the feather to the librarian, and without a glance back leaves it straining for air around the taste of blood in the back of its throat. 

The angel makes sure to clean up after itself. It knows better than to let its blood stain the rug.

* * *

The lost feather remains a point of focus for it. It can feel as it passes from one hand to another, feel the testing stroke of fingers over its vanes and calamus. It can even feel the air around it vibrate as the servant and the librarian talk before the feather is exchanged. The librarian’s hands are gentle, palms softened with ink and a lifetime of wielding quills insteads of swords.

Finally the touch halts, and it feels the bottom vanes of its feather dip into a bowl of water. It flexes its wing, unable to shake off the feeling of wetness that envelops the secondary, and takes off into the night. It has a mission from its lord to pursue.

* * *

The mission objective is a day away, as the angel flies. 

It happens while it is flying to the mission objective. There is no warning, only a small hand that wraps itself roughly around the lost feather’s vanes and abruptly plunges the calamus into what feels like fire. The pain is searing, and paralyzes its wingbeats. The angel plows into the peak of a tall pine, unable to see beyond the blinding pain. There’s a short reprieve when the feather is removed from the blaze and the angel wonders if it is known, if it was a mistake.

The brief respite makes the abrupt return of agony even worse. It manages to draw three gasping breaths, before the burning sensation doubles and it seizes, wings smashing into hard bark as if it could make the pain go away. Miles away, the empty calamus of its feather is tipped back and filled with fire and it gives itself the luxury to *howl* because there is no recourse, no escape from this pain that it could possibly attempt. 

When it comes to, it feels as though hours have passed. Yet by the setting of the sun barely 5 minutes have gone by. It cannot breathe, throat raw from screaming and the angel slumps against the tree it had careened into. Already it feels the bruises along its entire (self) body from the thrashing, sees the carnage it has wrought in this peaceful forest whilst in the throes of pain. 

It can feel the feather still, though it thanks the stars that it had been removed from the all encompassing fire. 

A calloused hand, different from the small one that had delivered it to the fire grips the quill harshly. Something will happen, it knows. It cannot recall the methods of making a feather fit to write with but after the searing pain that had knocked it from the sky it dreads what comes next. 

The agony of awaiting pain is almost as bad as the pain itself, the angel had learned with the captain. It finds the application of this lesson uncannily accurate. Straining its mind to recall how a quill is prepared yields nothing to the angel’s pain-addled conscious; the fire shrieks still in its nerves, unwanted stragglers screaming agony in its wings. 

It is still a day from its destination. The feather has been placed aside, it thinks, the wanted burn of touch lost to the residual burn of pain. There is a reprieve for now, it hopes, watching the shadows grow beneath the trees. It weighs the cost of delaying the mission longer against the possibility of agony crippling it at a crucial point, and cannot decide.    
  
The angel thinks of ink soaked nibs, cut and slit, and resigns itself to the pain that will come.

It folds its wings gingerly. The only conclusion it has now is that it will have to walk the rest of the way; the bruises that cover the angel’s body prove what will happen if it dares fly whilst the quill is being prepared.

  
  
  


The target of its mission is the second in command of the Kingdom of Jordan, Lady Casacara. Her entourage is a small one, and His Lordship hopes to discourage the budding alliance by launching a preemptive strike against the faction.

It wonders when anyone that did not stand with them had become an enemy.

Without flight, the trip to the encampment takes almost twice what it would have, but by skipping its sleep ration it arrives by the appointed time.

* * *

The camp is a sea of the Blood God’s colors, with a spot of royal red at its rear. Which according to its intelligence was the location of Lady Casacara. 

It was expecting more resistance, quite honestly. The local gossip liked to wonder what the leader of the diplomatic party thought she was doing wandering into the woods at night. It’s the perfect opportunity to strike.

In the lull before night, it waits. It finds company with a small kitten, whose ears and paws are tipped with charcoal and sunset orange. She greets Lady Casacara and a few other soldiers before sauntering up to its hiding place in the sprawling branches of a great oak. She knows where it is somehow, and looks up at it with stars in her eyes. 

Somehow she finds her way up to it, and though it gently places her back on the ground every time it still turns around to find her again until it resigns itself to her presence. 

It finds itself talking to her without prompting, wondering quietly why it is here, hoping that its action will not incite more conflict. Its thoughts wander, the kitten listening attentively to every word at its side. 

Eventually it curls on itself. “I wish I was like you,” it murmurs, daring to reach out. She meets his hand halfway enthusiastically with a head bump, and it suppresses a shiver at the contact. “My Lord has placed the burden of the war upon this one’s wings, but I am too weak.”

It pets the kitten’s head gently. “My Lord is trying his best to win the war, but I’m not sure it is enough. I am not enough.”

She looks at him with purple tinted eyes, and it half expects her to talk back to him. Instead she jumps into him, nearly knocking them both from the tree, purring. Her fur is soft and it takes so much to not hide its suddenly wet face in her fur, but she presses against him as if in invitation and it caves.

It tells itself that it does not count, that she is cuddling to it, that it does not find solace in her starry eyes and soft fur. 

It tries not to think about it too hard.

* * *

Finally night falls, and it says goodbye to the kitten, gently pushing her away when she tries to follow it. She should not see what the Angel of Death is named for. 

Luckily for it Lady Casacara is easy to sneak up on, and even easier to subdue. A true noncombatant, it notes, and buries the unease that burns the back of its eyes. Something rings, unnatural to it though. Something is out of place in the realm. 

“Who’s there!” It demands. The only sound is the wind ruffling the trees, but there: in shadows from where it had stalked its prey shine faint stars that blink like eyes, against a deeper dark than what it has ever seen in the overworld.    
  


From those depths step a man, cloaked in carmine red and burnished gold and void trailing his footsteps.

“Let her go.” The man commands, his voice echoing as though they stood in a vast abyss, and not amidst dense forest that swallowed sound like a starving wolf. Its wings shiver. Like recognizes like, after all. 

The Captain of the Kingdom of Jordan is a formidable foe, almost upon the level of the Blood God. Nowhere near the same stature, the Captain still holds himself in a similar manner, the stance of a calm apex predator in its home turf. His eyes are hidden by crimson framed dark glass, behind which seem to shine with an innate light.

He should not be here. 

“Let her go,” The Captain repeats, softer, more human. It mantles its wings, presses its short knife closer against the soft flesh of the target’s throat, daring the Captain to step closer. Wonders why it doesn’t just slit her throat right now .

“Why should I?” It challenges. It has the upper hand here. The Captain cannot hope to stop it from leaning in those fatal millimeters and achieving its mission. 

Why is it entertaining this notion? What’s a little more innocent blood on its hands?

The Captain smiles at it, the sincerity at odds with the situation. If there is any unease it is hidden behind dark glass. The question does give the Captain pause, though he gives the question minimal thought before: 

“I’ll come with you if you do?” 

The blatant disbelief it feels must be equally as obvious on its face, as the Captain adds “I promise I’ll come peacefully?” with a wry smile. 

It had been given orders to assassinate Lady Casacara, but it knows its lord would value the knowledge that the captain could pull from... the Captain. But the thought of a lord giving himself up for his vassals-- stuns it. It agrees numbly, and swiftly lunges forward to pin the man instead. 

It binds the Captain’s hands with what rope it had the foresight to bring, barely enough to tie the man’s hands and leash him, and pushes forward. Makes sure to walk behind him. The angel cannot allow for weakness to be shown, and the bruises which cover his back are all too easy to see in the coming daylight.   


* * *

The feather is being moved. It shivers at the sensation of fingers along soft vanes, smothers a whine that threatens to rise in its throat. The sensation is so close to what it must ask politely for from its Lord and yet, not enough. The touches are harsh, but it is not until it registers the soft scrape of a knife along the calamus of the feather that it realizes something is wrong. 

  
Its wing twitches from the odd sensation, akin to nails scraping over bone. It almost tickles until the scrapes become harsh enough for it to sink teeth into its lip to keep from screaming at the feeling.    
  


Even though it tries its best to keep up an unyielding facade the Captain still perceives-- something. 

  
The Captain seems-- uneasy. Beyond the nervous anger it sees so often in its mission targets, he glances back at it like it is an errant hound to be scolded. It would be offended if the ache in its wing did not make it wish it could hide forever and a day. If the void in its bone did not make the world feel ever so slightly off kilter.

What it sees in the Captain’s eyes— unnerves it. Makes something twist low in its stomach, and it wants to look away, but something locks its gaze. Mercifully, the Captain’s eyes soften and he looks away. 

It wonders what he sees.

* * *

It takes nearly two days by walking to traverse what it could fly in half that time. Not for the first time it wishes for the reliability of its wings, but it dares not fly. Not while the void of where feather should meet bone burns with every movement it makes. It reminds itself that it would not be able to fly with its prisoner anyways, but the loss of flight still burns. 

The Captain takes to attempting small talk, and though it makes no attempt to reciprocate he still manages to keep up a conversation. 

Night falls, and it can feel itself begin to falter, limbs getting heavier with every step. It knows it’s limits, and decides to take a short reprieve on its journey. 

It decides to tie the Captain’s leash to a tree, and it busies itself with gathering enough wood for a proper fire. 

As it makes camp it is startled to feel fur wind its way between its legs, wings flaring in surprise. It suppresses a wince at the ache that its fluffed feathers cause, and looks down to find the culprit, a familiar orange and charcoal tipped kitten. She squeaks at the angel, and darts around it for the prisoner before it can drop its kindling and stop her headlong charge. 

It is fast enough to catch the moment of recognition in the Captain’s eyes before impact though. Watching the Captain struggle to breathe after the kitten had jumped head first onto his stomach, it wonders if perhaps it is living a fever dream. It wonders how it did not notice her trailing them.

The Captain greets her with open arms (in as much as he can, bound as he is) and it suddenly cannot look away. Jealousy is a knife between its ribs that it ignores; the Captain is not His Lordship, as much as it yearns to feel a hand pet its wings as gently as its prisoner comb his bound hands through the kitten’s fur. 

It yanks its gaze away before it betrays its own weakness, it knows better than to wish for such things. By the odd look in the Captain’s eye it knows it has failed to escape notice.

“Why don’t you sleep kid? I can keep watch.” It stares at the Captain, eyebrow lifted in bemusement, looking pointedly at his bound hands. The man laughs, a shaky thing, and he eyes it like it is a wounded animal even though he is the one bound. It’s not sure what to make of it. 

“I swear I won’t try to escape while you sleep kid, okay? If it helps, you can sleep with Crumb across my legs, so even if I did try to escape you’d know.”

The Captain drives a hard bargain, it realizes, but the skipped sleep ration on top of a full day’s forced march makes its decision for it.

Sleep does not come, however much it wishes for it. It tries, it needs it, knowing there is a long journey ahead, but the pain in its wing is too much to ignore. Eventually it settles on curling up on the limb, and lets the weight of its body replace the ache with pins and needles, and drifts. 

* * *

The abyss of sleep is filled with hands. On its arms, on its neck, on its wings. Running across the vanes of feathers that are not its own. It does not move, does not chase after what it should not want. It fights to stay afloat, and latches onto --

There is a hand resting on its back, and it knows it is still dreaming but even this imagined contact feels so real, so warm it swallows a cry. 

“-umb, what are you doing here?”

A smaller hand combs through its hair, and though its nails are sharp it is gentle, and it leans into the touch.

“Sperioles said he’d back by moon high! So I followed!”

It flinches at the sound of exasperation that punctuates the tiny voice, but the purr that accompanies the noise reminds it of happier times. 

It’s been a long time since the angel had heard a voice so-- happy. Its dreams have not been good in a long time. 

“He’s very sad Sperioles. Why can’t we take him with us?”

“That’s just kidnapping, you know.”

“But he did it first! So finder’s keepers!”

The hand stops its petting, and it keens in the back of its throat at the loss. It almost cries when it starts again. 

“We can’t,” The voice sighs. There is a heaviness that drags the voice that was not there before that it cannot fathom. A depth of meaning it dares not look into lest it looks back.

“He’s missing a feather, here.” The hand smooths itself against the flat plane of the wing upon which it rests, warmth trailing the touch. It can feel the phantom sensation of a finger circling the void where its feather had met bone. “He is bound, and in chains of his own will. I can not free him. Not without doing more damage.” 

It wants to protest, that it is not worth the concern, that it is loyal, but it is just a dream.

Small fingers brush wetness from its cheeks that it had not known were there. Larger fingers card through its feathers, neatening crooked ones it had not fixed from its fall. It drifts, deeper, deeper--

“Go to sleep. I’ll wake you when the sun rises, okay?”

But it is already asleep, so it curls around the soft warmth that steps into its arms and lets itself remember black paws and cream tails and silken fur, and drops into the empty abyss of sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is only up to step three of my quill making list! 
> 
> Don't forget to like and subscribe, and let me know in the comments section if I made you sad so I can drink your tears.


End file.
